


Church

by PrettyArbitrary



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blasphemy, Church Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 14:10:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16955547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/pseuds/PrettyArbitrary
Summary: Sherlock discovers John has...conflicted feelings about religion. Especially about getting off in a church.





	Church

It was the kind of little wooden church that radiated faith and communal goodwill. You could practically smell the generations of devout old grannies drifting up from its boards. John almost fancied he could hear the ghost-footsteps of little kiddies running around in the loft, but that was probably the wind.

“Do you believe?” Sherlock asked, half-turning from where he strode down the center aisle two steps ahead of John.

John shook his head. “No. Been a long time.” He and Harry’d been raised in a little neighborhood parish like this, but it hadn’t stuck after he’d gone off to uni. He’d found lots of distractions in the world, but not much in the way of miracles.

Sherlock opened the door to the sacristy, and stood in the doorway while he studied the little room. John had seen bigger closets. It was a good thing this parish was low church, or the vicar wouldn’t have had enough room to get dressed.

Being here reminded him of all the things they’d used to warn boys about: how masturbation was a sin, and God could see you having sex. He didn’t really believe anymore, but it was hard to shake the superstitions of youth. While Sherlock turned in slow circles in the room’s small clear space, John had a clear vision of being stripped nude while Sherlock licked various portions of his body obscenely, and then being pushed to his knees to take Sherlock’s cock in his mouth.

A portion of his mind still occupied by the memory of his grandmother was scandalized. The rest of him began to develop an erection.

Sherlock turned another circle and then stopped, facing him. “Come here, John.”

John stepped forward automatically, which nearly brought him chest to chest with Sherlock. Sherlock leaned around him and closed the door. “Is it the vestments, the transgression, or the danger of discovery?”

John didn’t say anything, just looked up at the ceiling while Sherlock opened his trousers. He felt the draught, knew his cock was just…hanging out, looking stupid, being stared at. By Sherlock, that was. John didn’t want to look down. If he made eye contact, he’d have to answer the question.

He sneaked a peek anyway, because the way Sherlock looked at his cock always made him feel sexy instead of ridiculous. Sherlock caught his eyes. Dammit.

He could probably have forced an answer out of John just by staring him down. Instead, a smirk spread across his face. He reached for John’s jeans again, and began to pull them down. “Well, if you’re too embarrassed to tell me, I suppose the only thing to do is to play this out.”

Jeans down. Jumper off. Sherlock stopped him from reaching up to smooth his hair back down, pushing his arms gently back down to his sides. Then he undid the collared shirt beneath, button by button, and pushed it back off his shoulders.

As each square inch of skin was bared to the cool air, John felt himself turning redder and redder. Yes, terribly sexy; he had to look like a man-shaped tomato. But Sherlock studied him like he was some marble sculpture worthy of being tucked into a museum. Jesus—no, don’t say ‘Jesus’—he was short-circuiting. How could he process simultaneously feeling like an idiot being stripped naked in a church and recklessly, incandescently sexy?

With one finger under John’s chin, Sherlock tipped his head up and ducked down to bite, ever so delicately, at John’s adam’s apple. John might have made a noise. His knees definitely gave out. He would punch anyone who described it as ‘swooning into Sherlock’s arms.’

Sherlock chuckled, thankfully restrained enough that John could pretend it wasn’t entirely at his expense, and lowered him to his knees.

Sherlock looked down at him, long fingers running absently through John’s hair till it stood up in every direction. He did seem to love the texture of John’s hair. “What do you want?”

John looked up at him, around at the room—still tiny, still chilly—and down at himself—still naked, cock still standing stupidly erect. /So that’s a yes, then?/, he thought at it. /We’re really doing this./

Oh yes we were, apparently.

Well, conveniently he was already in the right position for this. He leaned forward to mouth at Sherlock’s, gratifyingly tight, trousers. “I want this. Take it out for me?”

He tried to pretend they hadn’t both just heard the pleading tone in what he hadn’t meant to be a question.

Sherlock’s breathing picked up as he undid his slacks. That was hot. It took a lot more than this to get Sherlock’s expression to flicker, but it was always a turn-on to see how John affected him.

Sherlock pulled his trousers down just enough to get them out of John’s way. John knew Sherlock’s flavors well enough by now—salt, sweet, bitter, earthy, a kind of coffee aftertaste—but that almost feverishly-hot weight against his face this time made his skin prickle with goose pimples. He couldn’t decide whether he felt hot or cold. He wrapped his lips around Sherlock’s cock from the side, and the prickly scratch of pubic hair against his cheek reminded him again exactly where they were right now.

God—no. Fuck? Damn? Shit! Bugger all, what if somebody walked in? Would they hear them coming? Would John have time to get dressed if they did? Sherlock cupped his head, big hands spanning the greater part of his skull, and tugged him gently to focus again.

Blow job. Right. Filthy. In the middle of a church. Naked. Well, in a small room with only one window high up on the back wall naked, but it felt like anyone could lay eyes on him from any direction at any moment. The Gram-corner of his brain was aghast, and uncomfortably interested, and he wasn’t going to call it the Gram-corner anymore, thank you, that was horrifying.

But still, the vague mental ghosts of family members and upstanding community past wavered at the edges of his mind. Lips sealing around the tip of Sherlock’s cock, he pushed forward to meet Sherlock’s careful thrust, the two of them fucking his mouth together, and he imagined their expressions if they could see him now. It was simultaneously almost life-ruiningly humiliating, and exalting to think of them seeing him giving head to this magnificent man. He was fucking gorgeous, after all. Brilliant, life-altering, protecting people, hands stroking down John’s neck and over his bare shoulders.

Feeling almost transported, John wrapped his hands around the backs of Sherlock’s upper thighs in order to hold him in place, cock as deep in John’s mouth as he could take it while John used his tongue and cheeks and his soft palate to massage and suction him as much as possible. Sherlock grabbed his head tight and made a guttural noise, and John fought down the urge to cough as he gave a couple of shallow, involuntary thrusts against the back of John’s throat.

Then he pushed John back, getting him off as Sherlock began to come. A bit of it got in John’s mouth; more got on his face and chest, and a few drops hit the rug.

The idea of drops of their come being left on the sacristy rug was like a hand reaching into John’s gut and wrapping tight around the root of his cock. Jesus Christ he was so hard he could explode.

Above him, Sherlock made a strange noise, almost like he was shocked. John opened his eyes. When had they closed?

“Don’t-” Sherlock licked his lips. He looked down at John, wide eyes skipping around his body, from his mouth down over the come painting his chest, up to his hair and then back down to his thighs. Fixed on John’s hand, gripping his cock. “Don’t touch yourself. I want.”

Just look at him. The most beautiful thing John had ever seen. If he could keep Sherlock like this always… Towering over John, flushed, sweaty—John could smell it, sharp male sweat under that expensive shirt—breaths coming hard and deep. Sherlock swayed, and then lunged down to grab John by one arm and pull him up to his feet. “Let me. I want.”

He pawed at his groin, as eager as if he hadn’t just got off spectacularly. Even the clumsy groping made John groan and nearly topple backwards. Sherlock tugged him close again and pulled himself together, long fingers wrapping with deliberate grace around John’s cock and then tightening until it made John gasp.

“Look at you,” Sherlock breathed. He tipped John’s head up, wiped at a bit of come with his thumb, and then pressed it into John’s mouth. John licked at it like he was giving that blowjob all over again, and smiled when Sherlock shuddered.

It was, John knew from experience, surprisingly difficult to get good pelvic action going when you were standing. He tried to push into Sherlock’s hand with each stroke, but it only made them both wobble. After nearly tipping over twice, Sherlock growled and turned John around, hugging him against Sherlock’s chest with both arms. One hand settled over John’s heart, thumb teasing his left nipple and completely uncaring of the semen he was smearing around with his shirt sleeve. The other took his cock again, and began to tug in a far more satisfying rhythm this time.

Taut as a bowstring, John dropped his head back against Sherlock’s shoulder, looked up at the ceiling, and thought again: naked in the sacristy, skin and sin on full display for anyone who cared to look.

Only the image that went through his head was of him naked, wrapped in Sherlock, streaked with his come, and recipient of his absolute undivided attention. Knowing with absolute certainty that he was captivating, because Sherlock would never bother to devote his attention to anything that wasn’t.

“You want someone to see you just like this,” Sherlock said low in his ear. “Don’t you? You want them to see you come. Helpless to stop it while I drive you wild.”

John tried to moan and couldn’t quite manage it, the sound broken up into short exclamations by his panting breaths. He did, oh god. The idea of it wound the tension in his body to the snapping point. As he felt his cock begin to pulse, he clapped one hand over his own mouth and the other to his cock, to try to minimize the mess.

For a moment, they just stood there, John leaning back against Sherlock and Sherlock leaning back against…the cabinet or whatever was behind them. Eventually Sherlock passed him his button-up. John wiped his hands on it, and then wiped down his chest and thighs.

Sherlock kissed him behind his ear. “We’ll have to try this again. Maybe the sanctuary next time. What would happen if I took you from behind while you knelt at one of the prayer benches?”


End file.
